


various Robb/Theon comment fics

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Comment Fic, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Doomed Relationship, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderfuck, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are all comment fics I wrote for the last two rounds of the five acts meme - after realizing that I had five of them that I hadn't posted yet I thought to put them all in the same place instead of spamming all over. If I write more of this ship for the next round, it's going to end up here as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're going nowhere (NC17)

**Author's Note:**

> General disclaimer: nothing in here belongs to me - not the characters and in 99% of cases not the titles.
> 
> This one was written for [eppic](http://eppy.dreamwidth.org/), with the prompts _restraints_ , _well-fucked_ , _blow jobs_. Title from Bob Dylan.
> 
> Chapter summary: where Robb likes to take things slow and Theon more or less goes along with it.

His wrists are crossed on the small of his back and Robb has a hand over them. He presses down, not enough to hurt but enough to send a clear message – _don’t move them_.

Theon doesn’t, even if his shoulders shake and every other instinct tells him to shove Robb off and turns the tables and fuck him through the mattress, because that’s not the way it should go.

It doesn’t change the heart of the matter, though. Robb is still kneeling somewhere behind and above him, his left hand keeping Theon’s wrists down; his right – well, two of its fingers are pushing inside him, painstakingly slow and slick with oil from a lamp that has to be somewhere on the nightstand. He can’t see anything, since he has his face pressed against the cushions.

“Robb –” he starts, but the grip around his wrists tightens.

“You could be patient, for once.”

Theon huffs, wishing he understood why Robb needs to take things so fucking slow. He’s not some kind of delicate flower, and it’s not the first time they do this – Robb should know already. But it’s not as if he’s doing anything to stop him either, is it? He lets out a small moan the moment Robb’s fingers push in deeper, _almost there_ but not quite, and he can feel Robb smirking even if he can’t see him.

“Hells, Robb, I can’t –”

“You don’t even know what I want to do,” Robb replies before moving his fingers away. He pushes them in again and they’re slicker – he probably coated them in oil again.

“I can imagine it,” he moans as Robb bends his finger just slightly – damn, it shouldn’t feel this good.

“But you don’t _know_ ,” Robb says, sounding a little breathless, and Theon isn’t surprised when he pushes a third finger inside. He’s taking his time, damn him, and he won’t tell why, and Theon shouldn’t really go along with any of this, except that some part of him isn’t letting him stop it. He should feel ashamed of it, he shouldn’t – but then he can’t even remember what is it that he _shouldn’t_ do anymore because Robb has pushed his fingers in deeper, slamming against the right spot, and he’s arching his back, groaning out loud, just wishing that Robb would _move_ them.

But no, Robb isn’t, and he’s still keeping his hand on Theon’s wrists. 

“Patience,” he says again, and Theon can hear him laughing.

“Robb, _fuck_ , I’ve had enough –”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence. Before he can, Robb pulls his fingers away, and for a second everything feels empty, and then Robb’s knees are at his sides and Robb is inside him with a single, deep shove that isn’t nearly as hurtful as it could be – Theon could bet gold that there’s no oil inside that lamp anymore, considering how slick Robb’s cock feels. And then his wrists aren’t crossed behind his back anymore but they’re at the sides of his head, Robb’s hands still on them. Fuck, Robb’s frame is almost pressed against his back right now and Theon has to turn his head to the side or he won’t be able to breathe easily.

“No,” Robb whispers, almost pleased. “You don’t even know.”

Then – then Robb moves back a bit, drags an arm under him and drags him up so that they’re both kneeling on the bed. The moment Theon’s arms get free, he grabs his wrists and crosses them again in front of his stomach, one hand still keeping them there.

“This isn’t –” he moans out, and then Robb’s free hand closes around his cock, and Theon expects him to stroke it, to give him at least some friction, but no – Robb merely wraps his fingers around the head and Theon wants to scream.

“As I said,” Robb says, sounding breathless, his voice shaking a bit, “patience.”

And then he stars thrusting in earnest into him, his grip on Theon’s wrists becoming almost painful, and Theon can’t even move against the hand Robb has on his cock because it’s useless. His entire body feels like a taut string that can’t break in two, and every time Robb slams inside he wants to curse but it comes out as a moan instead, and if only he could use his hands he’d have already touched himself but his hands aren’t an option. He can hear Robb moaning out loud against his neck, and he keens when Robb’s teeth bite down into his shoulder. And he can’t afford to think about how hard he is against Robb’s fingers and so he tries to concentrate on the rest, almost whimpering in pleasure whenever Robb’s cock hits the right place inside him – when Robb gives one last, deep push and comes inside him the two of them are shaking, and if Theon closes his eyes all he can see is white spots and all he can feel is a mixture of pleasure and _ache_. Because Robb’s hand is still on his cock and if only Robb took it away he thinks he’d come on the spot, and he wants to.

But then he can feel Robb breathing heavily against his ear and it sends another shiver down his spine.

“I didn’t forget about it,” he breathes out, sounding as if he has just run through the practice yard for one hour without stopping. “And I was planning on making it worth your while. If you don’t touch yourself the moment I let go.”

“Oh, fuck,” Theon blurts, taking another deep breath. “Fine. But you’d better be telling the truth that, Stark.”

“Good. When I move away, lie down.”

He shouldn’t go along with this, he shouldn’t nod without asking questions. But then Robb is slipping out of him and fuck the sheets will be a mess, not that he can’t lie about who was in here with him. Robb lets his hands go and he should have just gone and touched himself, but instead he turns on his back and falls down on the bed, feeling too weak to do anything else, and too _aching_ to even think.

He catches a glimpse of a smirk on Robb’s face before he moves in between his legs and leans down and takes him into his mouth.

Good thing that it wasn’t all of his achingly hard cock, or the thrust of Theon’s hips would have choked him a moment later. And – fine, fine, there’s something warm unclenching in his stomach at the sight, at seeing Robb with his mouth wrapped around his cock – gods, if either Ned or Catelyn Stark knew that Robb willingly goes to his knees for _him_ the end of times would come, and he really shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not when Robb’s tongue is running under the head of his cock, not as his head moves upwards and then downwards, not as he takes him deeper and doesn’t lean back as Theon’s hips thrust upwards. Robb just takes it and keeps on using his tongue just the right way and – he can’t even try to make this last longer. He reaches down with a hand, tugs on Robb’s hair but Robb doesn’t move an inch, and then he arches up and comes inside Robb’s mouth. The moment he realizes that Robb is in fact going to swallow he just can’t think anymore – his shoulders are shaking, his hands are grabbing the bedsheets, he’s not a taut string anymore but one that has just snapped and there’s nothing aching about his release.

He comes to – he doesn’t know how long later. His entire body feels heavy, his forehead is plastered in sweat and he can’t even think about moving, but it’s nice. He thinks he could go to sleep for an entire day, and he does realize that there’s Robb’s come sticking on his thighs and on the sheets, and he can’t care less.

“Told you I’d make it worth your while,” Robb says from somewhere at his left, and Theon makes an effort to turn his head and look at him. He looks insufferably smug, but he feels too good to try and take him down a notch or two. Not to mention that he should feel smug, if Theon can’t even think straight right now.

“Fuck. Next time give a guy a warning.” His tone is nowhere near as biting as he wishes it would be.

“What’s the fun in that?”

Theon lets that go – he’s pretty sure that he has said that line at some point and Robb is just using it against him. And then Robb lies down next to him – he was sitting up before. Theon should recoil when he puts an arm around his waist, but – for the life of him, he can’t think of a good reason to move, or to protest, or to do anything other than pressing back against him.


	2. can't escape from you (PG13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You should hate him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for [lenina20](http://lenina20.livejournal.com); the prompts were _angst_ , _doomed relationships_ , _stockholm syndrome_. The title is from Bob Dylan.

You should hate him.

Fine, you should hate them all, and you shouldn’t hate him more than his father. Robb wasn’t the one who stormed into your city and your home, who set half of it on fire and who fought against your brothers.

(You remember that day, clear as rain – you remember your mother crying her eyes out, you remember crying when you saw her weeping, you remember your father looking disappointed – but it couldn’t have been at _you_. You remember your sister’s murderous eyes as she looked at Ned Stark, you remember seeing the city burning up, you remember watching it still smoke as the ship headed North sailed away.

You don’t remember your brothers though, or better, you do, but not as well as you should. You can’t recall their voices anymore, not without confusing them, but you don’t remember those voices ever saying something nice to you, not in the way your mother did, at least. You remember that they thought less of your preference for bows rather than swords, you remember that they didn’t think much of you at all, and you _shouldn’t_. But it’s how it is.

You don’t remember any of them ever smiling at you. You know that Robb did, the first time you met.)

He’s not at fault for that, you know. But it’s his fault for making you _like_ him. You should have hated all of them, you should have despised all of them, you should have remembered that you could have died any moment if your father – but he wouldn’t, you know he wouldn’t. Not when you’re the only son he has left.

He shouldn’t have wanted to spend time with you, he shouldn’t have been the one person treating you like you were a ward rather than a hostage. He shouldn’t have wormed his way under your skin, you shouldn’t have let him get close, except that you did and you know you should loathe his sight, but you don’t.

(You should hate _them_ all. But if you can’t hate Robb for not having directly caused your family’s ruin, you can’t blame his siblings either, and still. You look at them and envy them because they don’t know what it means to be torn apart from your family and to watch your homeland burn, they don’t know how it feels when your mother clutches you to her frame as she weeps because she just heard that two of her sons are dead. Lady Stark looks at all of them the way your mother used to look at you, but you never on the receiving end of that kind of affection. She’s like her husband. Courteous but cold.)

You shouldn’t want to spend time with him, either. But you do. And in spite of everything you should do, you still can’t help it. You can’t help wanting him to like you (you know it’s pathetic that you’d do anything to make him smile at you), you can’t help wishing that you really were a ward because then it would all be so easy. You can’t help being elated whenever he treats you like his equal and berate him at the same time because it just makes you forget that you’re not. But whenever you berate him for that, you always end up thinking _what if he was like everyone else_ and you don’t even want to think about it. You can’t. At least, as it is, you’re sure that if your father ever rebelled again (but he won’t, you’re sure that he won’t) and you had to lose your head for it (but that’s just not going to happen) _someone_ would be sorry about it. It’s better than nothing.

He doesn’t know, of course. You’ve never told him any of this. And you never will. He doesn’t need to know, because then maybe he’d change, and maybe it wouldn’t be for the best, and the last thing you want is for Robb to ever change. You never want him to stop being the way he is, even if you should hate him. But you don’t. You can’t, not when people have been telling him not to get close to you for years and he’s steadfastly ignored them all along.

Sometimes you think that you should just force yourself to _stop_. It’s never going to turn out fine. You aren’t his father’s ward. You won’t become the new Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon just because sometimes you feel like you could be. You can have dreams at night about maybe marrying Sansa and maybe finally stop being the outsider envying them all because they’re everything you wished your family could be. (Seven hells, Arya is closer to her bastard brother than you ever were with your sister and it always leaves you feeling bitter whenever you think about it. Robb is closer to his bastard brother than you were to both of your brothers. At least Robb gives you a taste of it. You suppose it has to be enough.)

You could never tell him any of this. You could never ask him why he isn’t like everyone else. And whenever you think about any of this, it makes you feel ashamed, it makes you wish it was easier, and in this specific case, it makes you completely miss the centre of the target in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and of course he’s here, and of course he would.

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?”

“You never miss,” he answers, looking straight at you, and you wish his eyes were a little less blue and not staring into yours.

“My head just wasn’t in it.”

He doesn’t seem to buy it but he doesn’t press – he knows you wouldn’t answer, anyway. You could thank him for it – you don’t. “And why are you here?” You’re quite sure he was supposed to be entertaining some visiting lord’s children along with Sansa.

“My sister is managing well enough on her own,” he answers. “And I thought I could practice with you instead. But if you would rather do something else –”

“It’s fine,” you answer maybe too quickly. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. “Here, take it. Maybe there’s still hope for you.”

He tries to glare at you but he ends up shaking his head and taking the bow from your outstretched hand, and you almost shiver when your fingers touch. He’s smiling to himself as he goes to take some arrows as well, and you shouldn’t feel glad that he’d rather be here than doing his duty, and you know you couldn’t hate him if you tried.

(The thing is, you never tried. Not hard, at least. And you know you never will. You don’t know what it says about you. But the shameful truth is that you don’t care.)


	3. you were dressed in women's clothes (PG13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where Theon is ashamed of some of the things he wants and Robb has no problems with indulging in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for [doreyg](http://doreyg.livejournal.com); the prompt was _crossdressing_. Title from Bright Eyes. This is supposed to be TV-canon compliant - let's assume that Theon sent the letter during 2x03.

They don’t do it often.

Mainly because he doesn’t have the guts to ask, most times. Not that Robb thinks less of him for it, he _knows_. They didn’t do it often even before Theon went back home, sent a letter and then came back to Robb with a handful of nothing and no alliance (and no rights of his own), and they do it even less now. Every time he even thinks about it, he remembers his sister clearly stating that he was the one wearing a skirt out of the two of them, and – it felt shameful before, it feels even more shameful now.

At least his family won’t ever know. Sometimes he thinks that he’d pay to see his father’s reaction to his little, shameful secret, but – what’s the point. He doesn’t care. Spending half of your life deluding yourself into thinking that he did doesn’t change the fact.

But sometimes the shame doesn’t stop him either. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in this kind of thing. He knows men should not. Especially if they’re ironborn.

Then again, he’s really not much of an ironborn anymore, if he ever were.

So he asked, and Robb just nodded and told him that he’d come in the evening, and Theon’s hands shake as he opens a chest that he keeps under the bed. He doesn’t know what it says about Robb that he doesn’t think anything wrong of it – he’s a king, gods, he shouldn’t even make time for him, not now. He looks through the contents, settles on a light grey gown that he had found gathering dust in one of the cellars a while ago. It probably belonged to a tall woman without much of a bosom and – it’s the best fit he has. He breathes in and takes off his doublet, then his shirt, then his breeches. He keeps his smallclothes on after debating for a moment, and then he takes another breath and puts the dress on. His fingers shake as he laces it up, the cloth so very soft against his back. It’s a bit loose on the chest – the previous owner _did_ have a bosom, after all – but not overtly so. He laces it tighter around his waist – it was made for someone with slightly wider hips. The thing, he thinks bitterly as he looks in the mirror, is that it still fits him better than it would fit his sister.

It’s a nice dress. The velvet outside is still soft to the touch, and the silk on the inside feels almost soothing against his skin. It has small white flowers embroidered on the sleeves, and as he ties the last knot on the laces, he feels slightly less – less burdened.

Gods know, if he really had been a woman he’d have never had to go through that ordeal on Pyke. No one would have expected anything from him. And –

The door opens, slow, and Theon turns towards it, letting out a breath of relief when he sees that it’s Robb. Robb locks the door before coming closer, and he has something in his hands but it’s dark and there’s just candlelight in the room, and Theon can’t see what it is. He places it on a chair before moving closer, so for now there’s no way to see what it could be. Robb’s hair looks dark red in the warm light coming from the candle next to the mirror, and Theon gasps softly when Robb’s hand brushes over his chest, where the gown hangs slightly looser. It moves upwards, to his hair (it’s longer than it was before he left for Pyke – he hasn’t really cut it much since then), twining a strand around his finger.

Theon wishes that his knees didn’t go a bit weak at that – he knows that he’s flushing, and he knows that he’s tense, and he hasn’t done this in a long time but his shoulders are shaking with need, and he wishes that it was something to make more exciting a screw or two.

He also wishes that Robb wasn’t this damn good at this.

He wouldn’t have put an arm around his waist, if he wasn’t. The same way anyone would put their arm around a woman.

“This always looked good on you,” Robb rasps, and Theon’s knees go weak at that, not just a bit. It’s that he’s keeping his voice low, his tone gentle, a damn fucking perfect lord, the kind that Theon never was – regardless of what he wore.

“Thank you. My lord.” His own voice is barely a whisper, but he won’t go as far as to conceal it, and he isn’t sure he could.

“You seem cold,” he says, concerned, and right – he’s shaking. He’s better than Theon is at this game, and Theon should ask him one day – not now, though. “Wait a moment.”

He nods – proper ladies wouldn’t refuse, would they?

Robb goes back to the chair where he had left whatever he had brought with him, takes it, comes back. It’s some kind of clothing – it’s folded, so Theon can’t see more than a square of fabric in Robb’s hands.

And then he unfolds it and _ohgods_ it’s a cloak. Nothing fancy, probably something that might have belonged to a maid, but it’s dark grey and it’s definitely cut with a woman in mind – the hood isn’t as large, the cloth not as heavy, and no man would walk with a cloak that has small flowers and leaves embroidered all along the sides.

“May I?”

Theon thinks that he’s about to have a very unmanly reaction to all of this. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

“Of course.”

He breathes in as Robb walks forward and puts the cloak on his shoulder, tying it with a neat, small ribbon. He smooths a crease in the cloth and Theon glances at the mirror – for a mad moment he wonders if with the hair braided the right way, a very good shave and maybe some jewellery he might pass for a woman for real, and then he pushes that thought away and smiles shakily at Robb, putting his hands on Robb’s hips, without pressure.

“It’s lovely.” He’s almost choking. Hopefully Robb mistakes it for hoarseness. “My thanks.”

“I thought it would look good on you. I’ve had it for a while, you know.”

Theon doesn’t miss the implications – he’s pretty sure that Robb has just told him that they could or should do this more often, and he doesn’t want to know what it says about the two of them, but he can’t care right now, he doesn’t even know if he wants to think about it, and he can barely remember that this thing they’re doing is supposed to be all wrong.

He figures that he’s just being true to customs when he reaches forward and presses a kiss to Robb’s cheek – that’s what happens in Sansa’s stupid songs, isn’t it?

When Robb turns his head so that it’s his lips that Theon’s kissing, Theon kisses him back, but doesn’t fight for it, lets him set the pace, and sighs into it when Robb’s hands cover his cheeks delicately, and that’s the kind of kiss ladies dream about getting – soft and slow and careful and reverent.

A part of him will never not feel ashamed about this. But right now, another (bigger) part is too far gone to pretend that shame is enough to make him stop.


	4. hands all over (R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re drunk,” Robb whispers, “we shouldn’t –”; “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,” Theon cuts him off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for [embossedsilver](http://embossedsilver.livejournal.com) \- the prompts were _drunk sex_ and _confessions_.

It’s not the first time that Robb has to deal with Theon being drunk.

But it’s the first time that he’s this drunk.

Most times, he’s just more of a nuisance than usual – his jokes get worse (apparently it’s possible), he laughs more than usual, he boasts more about the ironborn’s prowess in a bedchamber. Nothing new, just louder.

He doesn’t know why this time he a lot more ale than usual. Robb hadn’t even been there to see it, since Theon had been out on his own. Presumably to the brothel. Maybe he _did_ go there, but when he stumbles back into the training yard where Robb was (he couldn’t sleep and figured that he might as well set up the targets for archery practice tomorrow) he isn’t reeking of sex like he usually does when he’s been to the brothel.

What Robb knows is that he doesn’t look like he can hold himself up, and so he leaves the targets be and goes to put an arm around him before he ends up falling on his face.

“Gods, you’re wasted,” he says under his breath, not expecting an answer.

Theon laughs as he leans on him, and Robb shakes his head as he tries to drag him towards the castle – fine. He’ll bring him to his room and leave him to sleep it off.

“Was worth it,” Robb thinks Theon says – he’s not being loud and he’s half-slurring in the first place. Then again now that Robb notices it, he isn’t reeking of ale – he’s reeking of wine. Maybe it was particularly good wine.

“If you say so. Come on, don’t make me carry you.”

Theon laughs against his shoulder and doesn’t cooperate much more, and Robb comes to terms with it – he’s not getting any help from him. Somehow he manages to get inside the castle and up the stairs, and by the time he finally kicks the door to Theon’s room open he feels like he can barely stand. Try dragging someone who’s heavier than you through two flights of stairs without even a bit of cooperation.

“Seriously, what did you even have?” he asks as he drops Theon on his bed, intent on leaving him there.

“You haven’t enjoyed life until you have good Dornish,” Theon slurs. Well then, lucky him.

“Yes, and you should be sleeping this off. You’ll regret it in the morning,” Robb says before turning in order to go.

The last thing he expects is Theon’s hand reaching out for his cloak and tugging strongly enough that Robb falls on top of him on the bed.

Then Robb has the proof that Theon hasn’t been to the brothel, because he wouldn’t be half-hard against his thigh if he had.

“Come on, let me go,” Robb says – not that he couldn’t get free in a moment if he tried, but he’d feel better if Theon let him go on his own.

Then he looks down at Theon and – his eyes are dark and he’s staring up at him with determination or something like that, and Robb doesn’t know what the hell he should make of this.

Surely he doesn’t know what to make of it when Theon puts a hand behind his neck and drags him down and kisses him. Without a hint of finesse and gods he tastes of wine and Robb should be pushing him away.

Not that Theon is in his right mind, and Robb shouldn’t really do this, but there’s a traitorous part of him that says _haven’t you been wanting this for a while?_ , which is not even technically wrong. Except that Robb would have never acted on it on his own, and – Theon’s tongue is pushing against his, and Robb wishes that he was drunk as well because at least he’d have an excuse.

“What are you even doing?” Robb asks after forcing himself to pull away. Theon’s hand is still tangled in his hair.

“What d’you think?” Theon replies, arching up his hips – Robb almost groans.

“You’re drunk,” Robb whispers, “we shouldn’t –”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,” Theon cuts him off, hooking his ankle around Robb’s, grounding him there.

“It doesn’t?”

“Been wanting to. Never did.”

Robb doesn’t have time to feel surprised – Theon is kissing him again, with a urgency that wasn’t there before, and Robb asks himself how he never even suspected it, except that now Theon’s hands are pushing off his cloak and Robb isn’t thinking straight anymore.

He’ll have time to regret it later, he decides as he returns the kiss without holding back. He pulls off Theon’s cloak and groans out loud when Theon grinds up against him, muttering _yes_ and _finally_ under his breath. Robb isn’t definitely going back on this now.

Theon tries to undo his laces, but his hands are shaking and he obviously doesn’t have enough coordination to do it, so Robb does the work for him instead and then goes to work on Theon’s – the moment he pushes Theon’s breeches and smallclothes down Theon is grinding up against him again, and then he has an arm behind Robb’s back and he’s flipped them over. Robb would be protesting about Theon not even attempting not to put most of his weight over him, but he can’t because Theon’s hard, leaking erection is moving against his own and Theon has a hand wrapped around them both and he’s kissing him again. Robb arches up into the touch, grabbing a fistful of Theon’s hair, grinds against him, moans into Theon’s mouth and hooks one of his ankles behind Theon’s knee just so that he has better leverage.

Theon groans out loud at that, says something like _fuck_ and _just like this_ and _Robb_ , and – Robb doesn’t know if he comes because of the way he said it or because he couldn’t just take it anymore, but before he can realize it he’s shaking all over and Theon is coming as well, and oh gods he’s biting down on his shoulder and Robb doesn’t know why he’s absolutely fine with all of it but he really isn’t thinking straight right now. Or at all.

When he has regained enough control of himself he shoves Theon off him – he’s heavy. Not that he shoves him away – they’re lying side by side now, pressed against each other, and he hasn’t ever seen Theon look this flushed. There’s sweaty hair plastered all over his forehead, and he’s breathing in deep, long intakes.

Oh, and both of their breeches are ruined.

“I can’t believe this,” he whispers to himself, but it’s not like he’s heading out, is he? Theon isn’t apparently moving anytime soon though – Robb is half-sure that he passed out. He sighs and forces himself to get off the bed long enough to take off his boots and breeches and to do the same with Theon’s. He’s searching for some kind of rag to wipe them both off when the entity of what they just did hits him fully.

He hadn’t really been thinking straight until now, but – gods, what has he just done? Theon was drunk, he shouldn’t have gone along with it, regardless of the circumstances. In the end he ends up searching through one of the drawers and finds out a clean rag – he wipes himself clean, then he sighs and heads back to the bed. He does the same for Theon and then throws the rag over their breeches, and meanwhile thinks about how he’s going to apologize. Or about how he’s going to get back to his own room without anything to wear.

And then there’s a hand wrapped around his wrist. Theon isn’t obviously as dead to the world as he had thought.

“Don’t,” he says. Robb is half-glad that there’s not enough light for them to see each other clearly.

He cautiously lies back down on the bed, the two of them still pressed against each other, and Theon does pass out, but he keeps his hand around Robb’s wrist.

Robb brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from his forehead and when Theon arches into the touch he decides that he’s going to get the entire story out of him when he’s sober.

As he falls asleep, he can’t help hoping that he won’t regret this in the morning.


	5. a face to call home (PG13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where Theon sends the letter to Robb after all, and goes back to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the previous round, for [nightswhisper](http://nightswhisper.livejournal.com); the prompts were _hurt/comfort_ (leading to happy endings), _baths/water_ and _inequality issues_. Title from John Mayer - this is TV-canon compliant (until it goes AU) so assume that Theon sent the letter in 2x03.

It takes him one month to finally get back to Winterfell after he sends the letter. He had pretended to accept his one longship and then abandoned it at the third of the villages he was supposed to raid. He’d have waited some more, but he could hear the crew whispering behind his back about his lack of enthusiasm and he heard news of northern men having been ready to defend Deepwood Motte from his sister. It wasn’t going to take long for people to find out why they had known.

Sadly, making your way through the North on your own when you’re dressed like an ironborn, you don’t have much coin with you and you’d better not be recognized isn’t an easy affair, and when he finally sees Winterfell’s walls, he’s exhausted. He’s filthy, his shoes are falling apart and he thinks he lost too much weight for his liking. He isn’t really expecting much of a welcome, actually he’ll be glad if they let him pass without asking questions, but the moment the guard recognizes him he’s proved wrong. First the guards start thanking him, then Ser Rodrik comes to the gate and tells him to hurry inside, and the few people in the yard are cheering when he passes in front of them.

This all feels like some fucking crazy dream.

It keeps on feeling like a dream when they get to the main hall. It’s crawling with bannermen – he probably ended up here in the middle of a war council. And the moment he walks in, everyone falls silent. He doesn’t even know what he should expect – and then he sees a flash of red, and Robb is walking towards him, his lips curled in a relieved smile, and Theon hadn’t known how much he had hoped to come back to _it_ until this very moment.

If only they were alone, he thinks. When Robb stops in front of him, Theon swallows. Time to start with the courtesies.

“Your Grace –”

“ _My lord_ ,” Robb cuts him, and Theon has to keep himself from asking him what the fuck he’s saying. He’s no lord anymore, not after what he’s done. “It’s good to see you,” Robb keeps on. “We had been worrying.”

Theon doubts that anyone else but Robb would have. He settles on giving him a small, useless nod.

“Is there anything you’d wish for? Your journey must have been tiresome.”

 _I wish it had been just that_. “If it please Your Grace, I could use a bath.” He really could – every muscle in his body hurts.

Robb gives him a curt nod and says that the council is suspended until tomorrow. Theon can’t believe that he’d interrupt it on account of _him_.

\--

There are a couple of fairly big underground pools in Winterfell, and when he’s told to go there rather than to a room where a tub would be brought he’s almost relieved. He won’t have to stay in a cramped space, at least. He strips quickly, leaving his filthy clothes outside, and when he steps into blissfully warm water he can’t help groaning out loud. His back is still hurting, and he can barely feel his feet.

Then he hears a door open and then close, and he sees Robb on the edge of the same pool, stripping.

“Your Grace, what –”

“No better occasion for us to talk alone,” Robb replies, pushing down his breeches and stepping into the same pool. Theon swallows, trying not to stare – once, he’d have done it shamelessly. And it would have brought to other, more pleasurable things – not that they ever talked about it, but it hadn’t even happened only a handful of times. Now he’s not so sure. When he raises his head, Robb is sitting next to him, blue eyes staring into his.

“First, don’t ever try to call me Your Grace again if no one is around to hear it. I already told you once.”

He swallows again, hating that he’s finding himself without words.

“Fine,” he manages. “If you pay me the same courtesy. _My lord_? Seriously? I’m – I’m not that anymore and you know it.”

“Seriously. But I wasn’t planning on using that when no one could hear me, either. And I don’t care what your father says you are.”

He pauses for a moment, then his eyes narrow as he looks at Theon’s shoulders. “You’re tense,” Robb says. “Allow me?”

He turns on his side, his hands going to Theon’s shoulderblades. Theon is too dumbfounded to say anything but yes, and he turns so that he has his back to Robb. He has to bite his tongue not to groan out loud when Robb starts drawing circles over his tense muscles. Sometimes he moves one hand away and when his palm touches Theon’s back, warm water falls from it, running over his spine. He’s doing this so gently, so slowly, and Theon can feel the tension in his muscles leaving them, bit by bit. He doesn’t know why Robb is doing this, but hells, he doesn’t want him to stop.

The point is that Robb doesn’t stop even when he’s technically done. One of his hands keeps on running over Theon’s spine, while the other cups his hip, his thumb drawing circles over it.

“Robb?” he asks, hating how small his voice sounds. “What are you even doing?”

“The least you deserve,” Robb replies. “If you hadn’t sent that letter – better not think about it. And I wasn’t lying before, I was worried sick. You ended up disappearing after it got to me, I was starting to assume that you had died at some point.”

“I couldn’t exactly write without someone finding out. I had to flee.” He tries to keep his voice flat, but then Robb’s arm wraps around his waist, Robb’s chin is on his shoulder and it’s all so _gentle_ , he isn’t sure he can take it.

“Don’t even try to think that I don’t understand what it means,” Robb whispers, and Theon shivers.

“It wasn’t – I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he settles on. He isn’t sure he can talk about the rest. He isn’t even sure he wants Robb to know. If he thinks hard enough he can feel his cheek stinging, no, hurting, or the sharp pain he had felt the moment his back had hit that chair or that table, and that’s not – Robb doesn’t need to know that.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

He hadn’t known how much he had wanted to hear it until now, but the moment Robb says it, he feels a weight lift off his shoulders. He couldn’t have taken it if he had come back here just to be met with more resentment. And then – then Robb moves closer, his frame flushed against Theon’s back, and the hand he had on his shoulder moves up to his hair, rough fingers carding through them, and he loses it. He lets his head fall back on Robb’s shoulder, closes his eyes. He isn’t thinking when his hand goes to the one Robb’s has on his stomach, but then Robb doesn’t let him pull it away and his fingers are curling around Theon’s; he hears Robb gasping then, and he already knows what is about to happen. Robb lifts their joined hands, noticing for the first time that Theon’s fingers are covered in cuts, that there’s a scar on his palm, that there’s still some dirt under his nails.

“Don’t stare that long, Stark. That’s what happens when you flee in the middle of the night and it takes you a month to get where you’re headed.” He knows he’s flushing in shame at that – _walking back to your captors like some lost dog?_ , a voice in his head asks, and it sounds like his father’s, not that it’s surprising at all.

The last thing he expects is for Robb to kiss the back of his hand a moment later.

He turns his head, staring at Robb, whose stare is still halfway between concerned and relieved, and he can’t hold back the question anymore.

“What happens now?” He doesn’t think he’s ever sounded this unsure in his entire life, but he hasn’t ever felt this out of place in his entire life. Not even when he came to Winterfell the first time.

“It happens that we still avenge my father and that yours might regret not having gone to war with me. For now it happens that my bannermen will have to make do without my presence until tomorrow.”

“Oh, will they?” he asks, and he does sound a lot less humble, but then again he only needed to hear that he could stay – and he heard it. “Won’t they be wondering what their precious king has to do with the likes of me?” Not as if it wouldn’t be a legitimate question. He has no name or title to speak of, after all.

“Most probably,” Robb agrees, moving so that they’re actually facing each other. “But at least there’s one privilege coming with that forsaken crown.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t owe them explanations.”

Theon doesn’t know who moves first, but a moment later they’re slipping down the steps, the water arriving at his shoulders rather than his waist, Robb’s mouth is on his, Robb’s hand is still carding through his hair again, Robb’s tongue is warm against Theon’s; if before he arrived here he had doubted his choice at times, he’s sure of it now.


End file.
